


tibi nox, tibi tota dies (adam)

by SingYourMelody



Series: to sleep, perchance to dream [1]
Category: The Wayhaven Chronicles (Interactive Fiction)
Genre: F/M, M/M, Other, Surreal Dreamscapes, gender neutral detective thanks to the amazing ambiguity of the second person
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2021-03-14
Updated: 2021-03-14
Packaged: 2021-03-22 02:21:24
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,167
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/30031551
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/SingYourMelody/pseuds/SingYourMelody
Summary: You know it’s a dream because Adam is touching your face, he’s touching your face and he’s saying your name and that’s how you know it’s a dream, and isn’t that just the saddest thing ever? You know he’s in love with you and he knows you’re in love with him and it could be so, so easy.It could be so easy, he says to you. He smiles and looks in your eyes and you’ve been getting so much of him in your dreams, lately, so much of him without the running away and the constant unyielding restraint and the longing glances mingled with pain. Everything is always so difficult with Adam, even though it never has to be.Adam smiles and looks in your eyes and says, I know. He says, it could be so easy with you.* * *The Detective dreams and falls through dreams, and Adam is always present but never there.
Relationships: Detective/Adam du Mortain
Series: to sleep, perchance to dream [1]
Series URL: https://archiveofourown.org/series/2209248
Comments: 3
Kudos: 4





	tibi nox, tibi tota dies (adam)

**Author's Note:**

> Sorry, this ended up being a completely different fic than I originally intended. I always end up writing strange fever dream-y things after staying up all night. Title translates very literally to “for you the night, for you the whole day.”
> 
> Also, I refer to A as “beautiful” in the Adam version of this fic and “handsome” in the Ava version. This is not an oversight, I like beautiful men and handsome women.

You know it’s a dream because Adam is touching your face, he’s touching your face and he’s saying your name and that’s how you know it’s a dream, and isn’t that just the saddest thing ever? You know he’s in love with you and he knows you’re in love with him and it could be so, so easy. 

It could be so easy, he says to you. He smiles and looks in your eyes and you’ve been getting so much of him in your dreams, lately, so much of him without the running away and the constant unyielding restraint and the longing glances mingled with pain. Everything is always so difficult with Adam, even though it never has to be.

Adam smiles and looks in your eyes and says, I know. He says, it could be so easy with you. 

* * *

It could be so easy, Adam says to you in the car. You’re eating french fries, feet up on the dashboard. You love the way Adam drives, like if one of those driving manuals at the DMV grew hands and feet and a penchant for long, stoic silences. 

It could be so easy, Adam is saying, and you’re trying to pay attention but the french fries are getting cold and it is of the utmost importance that you drop them out the window, one at a time. You want to watch them land but the car is going twenty miles over the highway speed limit, easily, and there are no highways in Wayhaven. 

Where are we going, Adam? you ask. But he doesn’t answer.

* * *

You know you’re home because the furniture is all the same, but you’re not home. You’re not home because Adam isn’t there, and isn’t he usually home by now? Your teeth are beginning to chatter with the wrongness of it. He’s usually home by now.

You’re usually home by now, you say to Adam when he walks through the door, right on schedule, and you mean for it to sound casual but it tears out of your throat like an accusation. Your hands are shaking. 

I’m not home, Adam says. The furniture is all the same, but you’re not here. 

* * *

Adam’s on the bridge with his arm around your waist. The water is sparkling prettily under the sun and the rocks are sparkling prettily under the sun and Adam’s teeth are sparkling prettily under the sun, and you know it’s a dream because it’s winter and rocks don’t sparkle and Adam never smiles at you except when he thinks nobody is looking.

I like hearing you say my name, you admit with your head tucked under Adam’s chin. Depending on your height, this is either comfortably easy or comically difficult, but you can’t quite remember how tall you are. You can’t quite remember how tall Adam is.

He smiles and obliges you. It’s a picture perfect moment.

Isn’t this perfect? he says. 

* * *

You’re in a phone booth, and Adam isn’t picking up. Adam has never not picked up within five seconds of you calling him.

Come on, come on, you say nervously under your breath.  _ Please _ . 

The dial tone is making your ears bleed and you’re almost out of coins and your hands are shaking so much you can’t get a coin in the slot, just keep drop drop dropping them and why isn’t Adam picking up, Adam always picks up--

Adam is knocking on the glass door of the phone booth. It’s me, he says. I’m here.

Your hands don’t stop shaking. You still keep trying to press coins into the slot.

* * *

It’s not so bad, Adam says. You can’t remember what he’s talking about. You’re staring at his hands, knuckles bone white as he grips the hilt of his sword taut. He looks so beautiful in his suit of armor you can’t stand it. 

He’s cutting through the thistle, eyes focused. The thorns are thick and the brambles are tough; it’s heavy work. He keeps you straight behind him with one arm while he clears the way. 

What is? you try to ask, but your mouth is dry with dust. Adam hears you anyway.

Isn’t, he says. It isn’t so bad.

* * *

You can’t remember your lines and everyone is watching, everyone is waiting, the silence is deafening, echoes throughout the empty theatre. Adam is staring at you, expectant. 

I…, you hazard uncertainly, voice faltering. 

Adam shakes his head.

You…, you try again, tongue feeling thick in your mouth. 

Adam’s lip twists briefly downward, eyes and hands urging you to try again.

We, you say and you can already feel the rest ready to tumble from your lips. Adam’s eyes alight, he nods encouragingly.

We, you say, are such stuff as dreams are made on, and our life is rounded with a little sleep.

The applause is deafening.

* * *

You’re sitting in a cafe, gazing wistfully out the window. Your hands are wrapped tight around a warm cup of something you don’t remember ordering.

Adam pulls a chair up, sits down next to you. You feel his eyes studying the curvature of your face, tracing the lines of your looking. 

What are you looking at? he says.

For, you say. I’m looking for you.

* * *

Yes, I will be thy priest, he says, and build a fane in some untrodden region of my mind, where branched thoughts, new grown with pleasant pain, instead of pines, shall murmur in the wind.

Adam turns, smiles at you. It’s nice, but it doesn’t feel like when Adam smiles at you.

That’s lovely, you murmur softly. You can’t bring your eyes to meet his for some reason, so you keep them on the soft grass as you twirl a wildflower between your fingers.

It is lovely, isn’t it? he says.

* * *

Where are you? you ask from the top of the water tower. There are no water towers in Wayhaven. Adam smiles, easy and slow, and says, I’ll just be a minute, I’m almost at the top.

Where are you? you ask, and your eyes have never left Adam’s face and his eyes have never left yours. 

I’m almost at the top, he says again. His smile doesn’t falter, hasn’t faltered. 

That’s not what I asked, you say. 

He climbs up another rung and says, yes, yes it is, and I don’t know what you mean. I don’t know what you’re talking about.

Who are you? you ask. Adam smiles, uneasy and quick, too quick. 

I’m almost at the top, he says, but you smash your foot down on his hand as soon as it grasps the final rung.

* * *

Why are you bleeding? you ask, curious. Adam hides his hand behind his back, quick as anything, and kisses your cheek.

I’ll tell you once we’re there, he says, but we’re running late. I brought you flowers if you want to braid them in your hair, but you’ll have to do it in the car.

* * *

I don’t think we’re going the right way, you say, but Adam only smiles and says, it doesn’t matter, we’ll get there.

It’s a nice enough day for a walk, the sky inky black and fat with stars and moonbeams. Adam holds your hand instead of hovering protectively, and the hollow buildings loom high above you, bricks worn and ivy-consumed. 

It’s a breathtaking day for a walk, isn’t it? Adam says as your feet fall in tandem against the cobblestone streets. He squeezes your hand once, twice.

You nod your head placidly and try to agree, try to ignore what lies in the rubble. 

* * *

Adam is looking at you without looking at you, you can feel the force of his staring even as you watch him gaze out across the ocean.

Isn’t it beautiful? he says. There are no beaches in Wayhaven, he says.

I’ve always dreamed about the beach, you admit quietly. You run your hand through the soft sand, let the grains slip through your fingers. 

It could be so easy, he says. 

* * *

You’ve hit a fork in the road. You look to Adam, but he won’t meet your eyes, lingers a step behind you.

You have to choose, he says. 

I don’t know where we’re going, you say uneasily. 

You have to choose, Adam says without speaking. His voice is rough, hands stiff at his sides.

You can feel the pressure pressing down on you, feel yourself stumbling back a step, feel the ground giving way beneath your feet.

* * *

You’re looking over the edge of the cliff, but all you can see is dust. 

You can fall, and keep falling, Adam says, or you can stay here. 

Here? you ask wordlessly, still staring down the precipice. 

Adam touches your hand. Here, he says. We can turn back and kick up the path, we won’t ever have to come here again, he says. The roads won’t lead here anymore, he tells you.

You turn to look back, and Adam smiles. 

It isn’t so bad, he says. It’s perfect here, isn’t it?

You bite your lip, unsure, and Adam squeezes your hand once, twice.

It could be so easy, he says.

You take another step towards the edge of the cliff, and Adam’s face changes, twists.

* * *

It could be so easy, Adam says as your legs dangle off the edge of the pier. 

You’re holding an ice cream cone that’s beginning to melt, all the colors running together and dripping sticky down your fingers. The sky is crowded with balloons, fireworks, confetti and sparkling glitter raining down like ash. 

You look at him. You look behind you, at the dock that leads back to the beach, back to the woods, back to the cafe and the highways and the home that isn’t your home. You look beside you, at the Adam that isn’t Adam.

You stand up, turn around. Adam beams, reaches out to hold your hand, but you close your eyes and let yourself fall backward into the water before he can touch you.

* * *

You know you’re awake because Adam isn’t sitting by your bedside; he’s standing by the window looking like he hasn’t moved for hours, days, arms crossed tight around his chest and every tensed muscle in his body radiating wordless anxiety.

Adam knows you’re awake because you can’t help but laugh softly with fondness at the familiarity of it, can’t help the sigh of relief at finally seeing him again that escapes you.

It’s amazing to watch, the way Adam instantly unfolds himself, lurches towards you in disbelief before he remembers himself and goes still, looking at you as though you’re something miraculous, as if he thought he would never see you again, as if he hasn’t been staring right at you this whole time.

You can tell he wants to tell you something he can’t bring himself to say out loud, so instead he starts saying something about some new obscure magical being, something ancient from the Echo World that wanted to use you and your consciousness as a bridge, something about eating dreams, you’re not sure, not really listening, eyes fixed on the stiff motions of his hands, the subtle worry etched into his brow, the purposeful distance he is trying to keep from you and continuously unconsciously breaching.

“You wouldn’t wake up,” Adam explains helplessly, desperately. His eyes meet yours and you can see everything in them. He presses his lips together in a thin, worried line, shuts his eyes for a second before bringing them back to yours. “You wouldn’t wake up,” he whispers.

“Couldn’t,” you correct, unable to peel your eyes away from Adam, unable to keep a smile of wild joy off your face, unwilling to even try. “I couldn’t wake up, but I always would have,” you promise, voice hoarse with disuse. 

Adam’s face does something complicated that isn’t quite a relieved smile and isn’t quite a confused frown but is somehow both, and you can feel the laugh bubbling up in your chest.

“What?” he asks, fondly unhappy with your inappropriate amusement, and you can only laugh harder, smile threatening to split your face.

“Never, ever change,” you tell him, and you almost want to make him promise it right here in this hospital room. 

His little squint of bemused amusement is perfect, and you want to tell him so, you want to tell him everything now. 

“I love that you’re you,” you tell him plainly. “I don’t mind that it isn’t easy. I don’t want it to be easy, I just want it to be you."   


Adam stares at you and you can see in his eyes that you’ve taken him by surprise and his mind is swimming in the suddenness of your statements and his own stunned silence, that he’s searching for something stubbornly serious to say and that he’s at a loss for words, you can see his fingers twitch like he wants to reach out and touch you and you know he won’t. 

It’s so complicated, and it’s so frustrating, and it’s so Adam, and it’s so perfect.

**Author's Note:**

> I really hope you enjoyed reading this as much as I enjoyed writing it! 
> 
> "We are such stuff..." is the oft-misquoted line from The Tempest, "yes, I will be thy priest..." is taken from Keats's "Ode to Psyche," and the title is taken from Lucan's Pharsalia.


End file.
